Spin
by Naishu
Summary: Finnick couldn't live without Annie, that much he knew. Instead of living he decided to sink. He would sink deeper and deeper into the mask that the Capitol had given him until he couldn't feel anything. Love, pain, anger... he'd tried feeling things, and that had taken more than he'd ever had to give. Somewhere in the process he'd forgotten that he wasn't alone.
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

District One was silent.

It wasn't common for the luxury district to come to a grinding halt, but all of Panem was frozen as they watched the finale of the Sixty-First Hunger Games. The wetland arena had been one of the most enthralling in years, filled with creatures and traps that had taken even the surest of foot by surprise. The finale promised not to disappoint.

The two remaining tributes stood in the center of the foggy arena. Around them the trees were sinking into the sand, weighed down by the endless torrential rain that had driven the tributes back together. Supplies bobbed in the murky waters but neither tribute cared; they were focused on each other.

The girl held a machete steadily in one hand and her other was tightly bandaged. It was obvious that she was strong. She stood a full head taller than most of the tributes that year, male or female, and the amount of muscle that still held to her bones betrayed her well-fed upbringing. Her injured hand had done little to slow her down. She'd carved and slashed her way to the final two and now stood moments away from the end. Her straw-like hair was soaked and clinging to her, though she didn't seem bothered that pieces obscured her view.

The male tribute that stood across from her had obviously shared her upbringing. Like her he was tall, standing above the lithe girl in front of him. His broad shoulders and thick arms had made swinging his spear child's play and had led him to the final two easily. He stood strong despite the red tinge seeping through his golden hair. The rain didn't seem to faze him as he watched his district partner weigh her options carefully.

They were both at a loss. Nothing like this had happened before. The girl shrugged and grinned through her sopping wet hair. "Did you ever think it would come to this?"

Her partner shook his head. "No. We would have talked about it."

She laughed quietly and pulled the hair out of her face. "Yeah… maybe we should have. We were being stupid, weren't we?" She watched the blood run off her machete, testing its weight as she thought. "How do you want to do this?"

He laughed under his breath, though the tension between them remained. "Tag?"

The girl flicked her hair and nodded. "Tag."

The wind died to a low breeze as they stood. Neither was willing to make the first move until the rain suddenly cut out. The gamemakers were waiting; time was up.

The weapons clashed so quickly that it wasn't clear who moved first.

Sparks flew as blades met. Fog swirled around the tributes' feet as they dodged and swung, each hit resonating against the other's weapon, none missing. It wasn't a surprise that they were so skilled; tributes from District One were nothing less than exceptionally trained. What was surprising was the fluidity of their movements. Each one knew what the other was going to do before it was done, as though they were moving from the same mind.

What else would one expect from twins?

Shimmer and Shine were a matched pair, the pride of the district. The children of a victor, they'd been born together, trained together, and volunteered together. The two had been inseparable since birth, yet they both knew they would never leave the arena together.

They continued to swing.

A snapping noise made the crowd gasp as the blade of Shine's spear flew off into the thickening fog, leaving him with the steel handle. Shimmer's attack didn't stop despite the sobs that could barely be heard over her blade's singing. Shine's jaw was set in a hard line as he blocked his sister's onslaught.

Everyone leaned forward as the fog briefly became too thick to see through. The clanging of weapons continued for several long moments until there was a shrill yelp and the twins came back into view. Shimmer was nursing a new wound that had left her with two damaged hands and no weapon. Still, she tossed her hair and lunged again, lashing out with her legs and sending her brother off-balance.

It was her undoing.

In the blink of an eye Shine had grabbed her ankle and whipped her to the ground. They disappeared into the fog. A heavy wheeze pierced the now-silent arena, followed by unstable breathing.

Finally, the fog disappeared for good.

Shimmer was pinned to the ground, impaled in place by the handle of her brother's spear. Thick blood ran from her mouth and down her neck, staining her corn-blonde hair as she watched her brother.

"Tag."

The word was barely a whisper as Shine stared down at his twin. There was a silent shake in his shoulders that vanished as quickly as it had appeared.

It was clear that Shimmer was dying as the deep red mark spread below her, sinking into the sand and creeping outwards. It looked like she was melting. The crowd hung on edge as she motioned for her brother to listen to her. He leaned down, though his grip was firm on the spear's handle.

"You're… it."

A dull thud echoed across the arena as Shimmer's machete lodged itself deep in her brother's neck. No one had seen her find the discarded blade. As Shine realized what had happened the strangest scene unfolded.

He smiled.

He collapsed beside his sister and rested his head in her hair as he bled out. Her cheek gently rested on his until her eyes slowly slipped shut. No words had to move between them, they already knew what the other would say.

_Together._

Their cannons fired so closely that they could have been the same sound.

No one would remember a young Claudius stammering as he tried to explain what had happened. No one would remember the marshes or the strange oil-spewing birds or the rain. They wouldn't remember the bloodbath.

The Sixty-First games would forever remind Panem of the look on the twins' faces as they'd slipped away.

It would remind them of peace.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:<strong>

Hello!

I've been re-hashing this story over and over again, and I finally decided to just go ahead and post it so that I'd stop re-writing it. It'll be slow-ish in updates, but please let me know what you think! It's a Finnick/OC, fic (because what is shame?) and the story revolves around the massive changes that could have happened if Finnick hadn't had Annie through the rebellion. I don't know how long it's going to be, but I have a fair amount planned for it.

Thanks all!

3


	2. Regret

**Regret**

Waking was more painful than sleeping alone.

Finnick stared at the ceiling as he struggled to catch his breath. The tangled sheets made him feel trapped as reality started to filter in and his nightmare drifted away. Pillows lay scattered across the floor and his breathing was punctuated by the _pat pat _of water dripping from an upturned glass on his nightstand. For a moment he thought he was all right, but everything came back in a crushing moment. His nightmare had become his reality.

_Annie._

The ceiling was blurred by tears.

Annie was dead.

He rolled over to muffle his sobs as his chest clenched like a vice and his teeth sank into his pillow. The pain was skittering under his skin. He'd never felt so hollow and so full of emotion at once but he was overwhelmed by both feelings. He was drowning in pain and choking on the fact that it was _his fault._

His jaw clenched so hard he thought his teeth may break.

He was the reason that there were no careful hands to wipe his tears away. It was his fault that he couldn't hold her close and remember that there were things he could protect. His heart twisted and he shuddered again.

What he would do to go back.

He wanted to go back to before she'd ever entered the games. Back to when she was just a brown-haired girl in the market. Back before he knew her name. If he could he'd never have to watch her break to pieces that he'd never fit back together again. He'd stop her from ever entering the arena. He'd stop himself from ever learning her name.

He curled in on himself.

He could still feel the sand slipping underfoot as he'd chased her funeral procession. He could feel the desperation that had screamed through him as he watched her casket float away. He should have been there and he should have carried her and he should have released her to the sea.

_Should, should, should._

He should have kept his fucking mouth shut.

He'd deserved every disgusted stare as he'd run to the edge of the ocean far too late and smelling of some nameless woman's perfume. He hadn't deserved the pity in her family's eyes. He hadn't deserved her mother's consolation.

He deserved his pain; he'd earned it.

A knock at the door forced him to lift his head from the pillow and hastily wipe his tears away. He rolled over carelessly and hoped to god they wouldn't walk in, though he had little doubt they would.

"Hm?" he grunted, feigning sleep. His heart was still racing and his hands were still clenching the sheets. He couldn't let anyone see him so panicked but the thought of getting out of bed made his body ache. The thought of doing anything left him more tired than he could ever remember being in his life.

"Wake-up call!" A sing-song Capitol accent rang. It was Deliah, District Four's escort.

"I'm up. I'll be out in a bit." He managed in a strained voice.

"Don't take too long, you have to see them off!" She almost sang through the door. "Breakfast is out on the table!"

He cursed under his breath and wiped his eyes again. The tributes were entering the arena for the seventy-third games today, not that he'd remembered. Remembering anything had become painful in the same way as having a sunburn; no matter what you did it hurt and it was always itching to remind you it was there. No matter what he did he thought of her. She was in everything.

_She was everything._

He took a steady breath and willed himself out of the bed and to the shower. The water did little to make him feel better, with its fancy foams and useless settings, but he had a façade to keep up. Her family was still living and he'd keep them safe, even though it could never atone for his failure. He'd give everything he had to keep them alive.

Breakfast wasn't the silent affair that it normally was. The tributes chatted idly as they worked their way through plates piled high with all the food they wouldn't get in the arena. Though his food had lost its flavour he could still be grateful that his tributes were so good-natured. Hearing them bicker about the exact taste of a strawberry was just mundane enough to keep him from relapsing into his thought-hell. He hadn't gotten to know the two of them as well as his tributes in previous years, but he knew enough that losing them would be painful.

Enayla was a cheerful girl who was quick with her words. Though she was smaller than the other tributes that year, she was unbelievably smart and had kept everyone on the edge of their seat during her interview. She'd managed to score a ten in her private assessment by building a fire, and that was a feat that Finnick doubted he'd ever be able to replicate. He watched her teasingly wave the last sausage in Thal's face and he couldn't believe she was so calm.

Thal was the perfect counter to Enayla's mischievousness. He was laid back and perceptive, the kind of guy who could see through a situation in a second. It was obvious from the way he'd systematically eaten from left to right that he was nervous, but he was trying to keep a lid on his emotions. Nerves or not he'd be a hard tribute to beat. He was quick, well-trained, and had already allied with the scariest players in the game. Enayla pouted as he drank the last of her orange juice as payment for the sausage.

When he took them up to the hovercraft to say goodbye, he thought he'd made it out of the process all right. Enayla thanked him and ruffled his hair before darting fearlessly into the droning craft, barely looking over her shoulder. He wondered if she even knew how to feel fear.

Thal didn't join his district partner right away, but waited to say goodbye until the droning sound of the propellers was almost unbearably loud. The wind whipped them mercilessly as an attendant tried to wave the teen on but he held his hand out to Finnick instead, watching him silently. When Finnick took it he was pulled into a crushing hug by the younger boy.

"_You have to let it out, okay?" _he yelled over the deafening wind.

Finnick froze. Had he heard the boy wrong? "_What?" _

"_Whatever's tearing at you, you've gotta get it out… it's eating you alive. If you're gonna keep us going in there, we can't have you dying out here."_

Thal pushed him away and nodded to him, his gaze not breaking until he was pulled away by the attendant. Finnick was stunned in place as the craft rose higher and higher, taking his ever-perceptive tribute away. He felt the pressure of keeping the tributes alive drop onto his shoulders like a hundred anchors and he realized that there was no way he could do it.

He couldn't do it because he'd already fallen apart.

* * *

><p><em>-Three Days Later-<em>

The sponsor's room was as loud as it was extravagant. It seemed that every year the games had to out-do themselves and it made Finnick's stomach turn. It was the third day of the games and only Thal was alive, Enayla having met her end at the bloodbath. Thal had aligned himself with the careers and was proving his usefulness time and again as they moved from island to island and systematically hunted the others down. Finnick knew it was only a matter of time before the careers questioned Thal's lack of sponsors, and the boy had no way of knowing that it was because his mentor hadn't gotten out of bed in three days. The weight of Thal's request had utterly crippled his mentor until Johanna had showed up at his door with a firm tongue-lashing. He had tributes in the arena and Annie never would have forgiven him for abandoning them. That thought had propelled his steps to the crowd-littered room before him despite the ever-growing pressure in his chest.

"There he is! Finnick, we were starting to worry you wouldn't show up!"

He returned their greeting with a charming grin. "You know I wouldn't leave you like that Antigonus." The words rolled smoothly off his tongue. The only thing left that came naturally to him was his suave mask, the one that he wore for every event. It was something that Annie had never been a part of, an entirely different person who was only interested in what he could gain. It terrified him.

"He's doing well, even if he _has_ been lugging that girl around for days." Antigonus said as he watched Thal cut through the water with the girl from Two on his back. "You should have seen him cut down the tributes from Seven… they didn't stand a chance."

Finnick cursed inwardly; Johanna would be livid with him he was sure. Still, he could tell from the way that people were watching the screens that Thal had a larger following than he'd anticipated. He felt a pang of guilt. He should have been collecting sponsors from the beginning. "Of course they didn't, he's the best tribute we've had in years."

"Better than you were?" A female voice interrupted. He recognized her as the head gamemaker's wife.

"Let's not say anything we can't take back, Mirielle." He smirked as he kissed her outstretched hand. He could feel himself retreating into his Victor's shell, returning to who he'd been for years before _her_.

"Oh we've missed you!" Mirielle exclaimed, dramatically fanning herself. "Have you gotten something to drink yet?"

He shook his head. "I was on my way when I was distracted by you lovely people."

"Oh! Don't let us distract you from the refreshments, they're to die for this year." Antigonus interjected. Finnick wondered if he realized the irony of his statement. He saw Mirielle watch the screen intently and he realized that she may be the exact sponsor Thal needed. It was never a bad thing to have pull with the head gamemaker, after-all.

He made his way through the crowd slowly, stopping to chat with Capitolites here and there on his way to the champagne fountain where some poor girl stood in the middle, painted gold. He wondered who or what they'd threatened to get her in there.

He took a deep breath and surveyed the room. It seemed that every set of eyes was glued to Thal, making him the crowd favorite. Finnick knew the boy must have gained an especially large following when he'd discarded the top of his bodysuit. Thal's perceptiveness had won again… he knew where his sponsorship appeal lay. Finnick watched a set of women swoon as his tribute finally rose from the water, then he turned away, skin crawling.

He was about to dip his glass into the golden fountain when a rough hand stopped him and held out a bottle instead. "You can't tell me you actually want that stuff."

Haymitch Abernathy was leaning casually against the table with his bottle of whiskey, looking like he didn't have a care in the world. Given that his tributes were dead it was likely that he didn't. Finnick looked from him to the champagne, then held out his glass to the older mentor. "Until you showed up it was the best-looking drink here." He murmured as his glass was filled far past an acceptable level. He didn't care.

"Your thanks are welcomed." Haymitch mock bowed and joined him against the wall to watch the room.

Haymitch was a welcome relief amidst the manicured faces that were gliding through the room. It never ceased to amaze and disgust him that the Capitolites could make a party out of anything. Right now thirteen tributes were still alive and fighting, but it was nothing more than the background noise to whatever dress so-and-so had been wearing at whoever's soiree. He took a deep sip from his drink and welcomed the burn in his throat.

"Makes you sick, doesn't it?" Haymitch mused. He may have lost his family and his resistance to alcohol, but he'd held onto his freedom of speech. No one listened to a drunk… that was probably why Finnick found him so comfortable to be around. Haymitch could say the words that would never pass through the Capitol darling's lips. Finnick snorted.

"Lots of things make me sick." He muttered as he stole another sip. He knew he should have been out getting sponsors, but it was a miracle he was in the room at all.

Haymitch ignored his ambiguous reply. "It's just all a big damned party, all the time. Drink and eat and show the districts how short their leash is."

"I try not to think about it."

"Kind of hard when it's being rubbed in your face." Haymitch sipped from the bottle and looked at the vaulted ceiling. Finnick followed his gaze.

Dancers were hanging from the ceiling, decorated to look like parts of the chandeliers that surrounded them. He knew exactly who Haymitch had been talking about; she hung from a chandelier by her knees, her carefully made-up face watching the crowd below her as she moved. He would know her face anywhere. "You mean Lush." He murmured.

Haymitch nodded. "That was some kind of deal her father struck."

"Wish we all had parents like that." He wasn't in a good mood to talk about underhanded deals. It seemed the more he drank the angrier he was getting. He wanted to tear through the room shaking people and demanding to know where their minds had gone. Couldn't they see that none of this did anything good? Didn't they know that not one of the victors felt like they'd won a damned thing?

"Looks like your kid might make it out."

"It's still too early to tell."

"You're in one hell of a mood."

"I'm not."

"You sure as hell are." Haymitch observed as he refilled his glass. Finnick could feel the tingling in his fingers that said he'd had too much too quickly but he didn't care. The older man gave him a long sideways glance. "Shit… you really loved her, didn't you?"

He flinched. "Not now." He muttered. There was no way he was going to talk about what had happened, not now. "Don't do this."

"Someone has to."

Finnick stepped away and tilted his glass at the older man. "Pleasure as always, but I have sponsors to collect."

A look crossed Haymitch's face; something from some place and time that Finnick didn't know or understand. "I know what you're thinking, but don't go there. You might not be able to come back." He warned.

"I hope I don't."

With that he stepped away. He knew what Haymitch meant, he'd seen victors play the Capitol's game until there was nothing left of them. No faith, no hope, _no love_. He envied them. He wanted – _needed -_ to feel nothing, because feeling anything was a dangerous game. He'd tried feeling things and it had taken more than he ever thought he could give. Haymitch had no idea what he needed. What he needed most was to slip into his Capitol persona and forget what his heart was for. Finnick Odair knew how to play give and take, and he would take as much as the damned Capitol would give him.

"You can't run forever golden boy, it's gonna catch up to you."

He barely heard the older mentor over the crowd as he made his way to the other side of the room and back to Mirielle who quickly latched herself to his arm. "There you are! I was beginning to think you'd been kidnapped!"

He laughed as his drink worked its way through his veins and pushed Haymitch's warning from his mind. "I was finding something a bit more appropriate to drink." He said, offering his glass. She accepted it quickly and took a sip that led to her pouring some into her remaining champagne.

"Why more appropriate than champagne?" she asked as she sniffed her new mixture.

He leaned in to her ear. "Champagne is for winning, rye is for making new friends."

"I think I prefer champagne." She mused. "But I do like making new friends…" She caught her lip between her teeth and he knew he had her.

"Then why don't we see about that win?" he purred.

He'd take whatever they could give.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:<strong>

I didn't expect to get this finessed today, but I was inspired. I've written this story in random bits that string along from this point and into the Quarter Quell, so I'm having fun trying to pull them all together without changing them too much. This was a hard chapter to write because Finnick is so broken and confused, so let me know how it worked out!

Thanks to Evanescence853! I've found your story and am working my way through it :D it's a unique concept that I can't wait to read. I hope that you enjoy the direction that this story takes.

Much love all!

N.


	3. Anger

**Anger**

The streets of the Capitol were packed as the games progressed. There was barely room to shuffle by as hundreds of bodies pressed together to watch on giant screens overhanging the street. The thrill of the slaughter had pulled them from the private screens in their home to stand with their fellow citizens and "ooh" and "ah" over spatters of blood and terrified screams.

Waves of sound washed over the calm rooftop Garden that Finnick had found refuge in, though the rustling leaves did little to muffle the excited yells from thirty stories below. He knew that they were eagerly waiting for the finale now… he was sure it would happen before the sun set the next day. There were only three tributes left; Thal and the girls from Two and Nine. Usually the finale would roll into full steam, but it was too far into the night for the game makers to get the impact they wanted, Finnick knew. They'd let the crowds linger on the tributes' every move until dawn, then destroy them. Despite this, the city was a living, breathing organism that wanted to swallow him whole. He was tempted to let it.

He could see the mass of colors far below that moved and retracted like a single being as he stood on the ledge of the garden. He'd been standing there since the sun had been high in the sky, unable to pull his eyes off the ground below. How long would he fall if he let himself?

How many times had he stood here before?

Twice.

The first had been the night before he'd entered the arena. He'd watched the sleeping city until the early morning hours, imagining it burning and consuming itself. He wondered how they'd explain having only twenty-three tributes. He wondered if anyone would even care. He'd stepped back after reminding himself that he wasn't there without choice in the first place. Volunteering wasn't well followed by cheating.

The second time was when he'd learned about his role in the Capitol. His blood had been boiling with rage, and if they'd really wanted to see all of him they could scrape him off the pavement. Still, he'd hesitated. He'd weighed the chances of his family's survival for hours, a moot point now, and the wind had threatened to make the decision for him. Deep down he'd known that nothing would assure their fate faster than him finding a way to escape, so he'd stepped back from the edge and accepted his private hell.

This time he was hard-pressed to find something to hold him back.

For a fleeting moment he'd believed that he could survive in a world without her. He'd thought if he lost himself in the persona the Capitol expected he could forget how to feel. He'd been wrong. All of his mistakes were swirling in his head and screaming for him to step forward. One little step and he'd finally be free of the games and the lies and the guilt and shame. He'd never have to send children off to die, and he'd never dream about the blood that stained his hands again.

If he'd only had the courage to leave the ledge all those years ago he could have saved them both the pain that came with a Victor's life. In the very least, she never would have met him. Maybe she'd still be alive.

He pursed his lips.

Maybe, if the universe had a sense of mercy, he could see her again.

Hot tears ran tracks down his cheeks as his heart twisted. If he could see her again he'd do nothing but beg. He'd beg her to forgive him for leaving her family behind. He'd beg her to forget what he'd said that night. He'd beg her to take him with her, wherever people went after death. He'd beg just because he knew she could hear him.

Dust skittered into the wind as he balanced on the edge and his stomach twisted in angry knots.

Such a short fall for all the mistakes he'd made… still, some piece of him was begging him not to jump.

"_She's thirteen! How the hell do you live with yourself!?"_

His head snapped to the direction of the voice that yelled across the roof. Who would be up here at this time? He paused and listened. Heated voices wove through the rooftop garden, drowning out the bustle far below. He stood tentatively on the edge now, his resolve not quite the same. Somehow it felt rude to jump if there were people around, absurd as it was. He looked back over the edge until a loud, pained shriek ripped across the roof.

He turned away and looked for the source of the noise as silently as he could. He could hear urgent splashing and panting, but it told him little. Despite the wind he could make out the voices more clearly as he got closer.

"Are you gonna try that again?_" _a male voice taunted.

"_Thirteen._"

"And whose fault is that? Maybe you should have been a good little whore and kept his interests elsewhere, hm?"

More splashing and more panting brought Finnick around the corner. He stumbled for a moment as he realized what was happening. A disrupted fountain ruined the silence of the night again as strong hands pushed a head of blonde hair deep into it.

His fist wound into the man's shirt before he realized he'd crossed the courtyard. "_What the hell are you doing!?" _he demanded. His blood was on fire, his sadness having turned to rage. He didn't know what had happened between the two of them but he didn't care.

The man's fist rose and faltered as he realized who was holding him. "This is far out of your business."

The woman's heavy panting filled the silence on the roof as Finnick stared the man down. He was easily Finnick's size, and from the lack of Capitol fashion in the man's attire it was clear that he was someone to not play around with. Finnick didn't care. "I've been in the market for new business, actually. I think I'll get involved in yours."

The man watched him for a long moment before his lip curled. "Yeah? I've got a job for you then. Why don't you head down there and tell Chancellor Ka-!" he was cut off by a hoarse yell.

"_I'll do it!" _

Both men turned to look at the woman who was steadying herself against the lip of the fountain, her face obscured by running make-up and soaked hair. "Tell him I'll be there tomorrow night."

The tension on the roof seemed to ease.

Finnick looked from her to the man, who smirked at him like he was in on some private joke. The man raised his hands. "Good choice. I'll see you tomorrow." he glanced at Finnick, then the hand that was still firmly holding his shirt. "If you don't mind…"

Finnick reluctantly let go. Something in him instinctively hated that man and he didn't want to release him back to wherever he'd come from. He'd seen a hundred sideways smiles like that… they belonged to faces that had a long history of getting whatever they wanted. Still, he loosened his grip. Surprisingly, the man left without another word.

The second the rooftop door closed the woman collapsed. Her shoulders shook and she wiped her face with a beaded sleeve. "I'm sorry, you don't have to stay." She muttered, her voice still rasping.

He knelt in front of her and saw the shiver in her shoulders. He didn't know how the direction of his thoughts had changed so drastically, but he wanted to make sure she was all right. Dying could wait, couldn't it? "That's ridiculous."

He got his first real look at her when she coughed and turned to him, her eerie golden eyes full of confusion. He immediately recognized her as Lush, the dancer from District One. He tilted his head curiously as he watched her. Even amidst the smeared make-up and water-logged costume it was obvious that he'd rescued the Capitol's favorite dancer from an early demise.

"Oh no…" Her eyes widened as she looked at him, tear-rimmed amidst her soaked skin. She'd recognized him too, and for some reason it hurt as she flinched away. "I'll be fine, you should get back to your sponsors." she buried her face in her hands.

Her shoulders shivered and he shook his head. "No." He couldn't leave her like this, and even if he did where would he go? Back to the sponsor room to whore himself out? To another rooftop to contemplate jumping? No. He'd stay with her, where he was _needed, _at least for now.

"Just go!" she spat. "I don't need your help!"

"Someone just tried to drown you in a fountain." He pointed out.

"Well I…"

Her sentence hung unfinished as her lips trembled. Her drenched face hid her tears but he was sure that they were there. He'd seen enough women cry to know that the shake in her shoulders wasn't from the cold. From what he'd heard he could guess what she was involved in and he knew the feeling that was dripping from her eyes. _Despair_. "Here." He leaned forward and slipped his arms tentatively around her. "I'm sorry." He whispered. He felt her try to hold her sobs back and fail. Finally, she buried her face in his shoulder and cried. Her fingers wound into his shirt as her cries turned from sad to angry to desperate and he held her closer.

The wind that whipped across the roof brought the sounds of the Capitolites through the trees again, and it felt like they were mocking them; laughing at two people who were broken because of things they couldn't hope to control. With every wave of yells from the streets and cries from the stranger in front of him he felt anger creep further through is veins.

Maybe he could feel something besides crippling despair after-all.

He wondered if that was deadlier than the rooftop's edge.

* * *

><p><em>District Nine<em>

The afternoon sun had long since finished its long descent to the horizon when Verta stopped to take a drink. She'd spent her day distracting herself with the careful harvesting of her backyard barley crop, making sure that all of the tall stalks were neatly aligned and ready to be sent off to town. The bundles stood in perfect order without a single stem out of place, and each was securely tied despite her lack of a left arm. She sipped from a night-cooled canteen as she looked across the expanse of her property in the moonlight. There was no justifiable reason for her to spend the full day working away at a crop that would bring little revenue, but then again there was no purpose to gardening at all for her. Ever since her victory in the fifty-second games she hadn't wanted for anything, yet that had left her emptier that she'd ever felt. The games had given her everything anyone could ever want, and they'd taken more than any person could ever give.

She'd spent the day uselessly organizing her grain to avoid watching the games that would assure her young daughter's fate.

She felt her eyes tingle at the thought of her daughter. She'd managed to convince herself that her smart, strong, beautiful daughter would never come home. Night after night she'd screamed into her pillow and destroyed anything that the Capitol had given her until she could barely lift her remaining arm. She wasn't stupid, she knew that Augra was never coming back. Verta had been blatant in her opinions of the Capitol and her friendships with known dissenters, and Augra was the toll that Snow was exacting.

Her sickle tore through another bunch of barley as her anger flared.

Her daughter was a fighter, that much was certain. She'd held on until the final three despite being fifteen years old against a field of eighteen year-olds. She'd paid attention in training, collecting edible roots and avoided the careers at all costs. Still, Verta knew there was no way that her warrior daughter would come back. There was no doubt in her mind that they were less than a day away from the finale and she couldn't bring herself to watch. She couldn't watch her daughter be erased from the world… not if she wanted to have any hair of sanity left for the things that were in motion.

There was change coming. The contacts that she had in the rebel networks had somehow made her believe in the unrest that was building around Panem. At first she'd been skeptical, but after watching her confidants get mowed down she was sure that a rebellion would happen in her lifetime. Lustre, Mais, Anais. Her closest friends in the Victor's circle had been killed after their ties were confirmed, and nothing had made the workings of the Capitol clearer.

She slashed harder.

Her daughter would die but it wouldn't be in vain. Verta would give every last ounce of her being to make sure that the Capitol fell. She would grace her daughter's grave with the debris of the tyranny that had killed her.

She hoped it burned on its way down.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:<strong> Hi again!

Another chapter that I didn't think I'd get up so quickly! I've been so busy with schoolwork that I haven't had much time to write, so this is a bit of a short one (for my standards). I hope you enjoy and let me know what's on your mind! I was nervous about writing this chapter, but at the same time I really wanted to as I felt like Finnick must have felt ridiculous despair over the course of his ten years since victory. I remember reading Mockingjay and thinking "It's a miracle that he's even still alive!". I think Annie was the largest reason for his hope, which makes this story kind of depressing as he doesn't have her. I apologize in advance for the depressed Finnick that is to come, but there is a light at the end of the tunnel! I think it would take a lot for him to even consider moving past her.

Thanks to Dancing-Souls for reviewing! I agree :P, don't go into the endless pit Finnick!

I hope you enjoyed!

Naishu


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